


Another Left Hand

by longwhitecoats



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War, rebuilding bucky's robot arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6786355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>T'Challa has some ideas for a new arm. Bucky starts... getting ideas. </p><p>(Hope you like it, V! :D I blame you for putting this in my brain.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Left Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deepsix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepsix/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Другая левая](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6922504) by [neun_geschichten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neun_geschichten/pseuds/neun_geschichten)



When Bucky wakes up, he has two thoughts in rapid succession: _It’s too soon. My hand’s bleeding._

He was punching the inside of the glass in his sleep, he realizes. He doesn’t have his metal arm anymore, so he must’ve used his non-metal arm. The weaker arm.

Outside the case, a lot of people are yelling and alarms are going off. Some very serious-faced doctors in white coats are briefing a handsome man in a suit. T’Challa. Bucky remembers his name.

T’Challa looks at him, and his expression is piteous.

Bucky takes in the damage to his hand. He flexes. The muscles move smoothly, and though some of the bones might be fractured, nothing is badly wrong. It looks worse than it is; but still, it will take time to repair.

He sighs.

*

“Since you’re awake,” T’Challa says as the doctor finishes bandaging his hand, “I thought you might like to see some designs I’ve put together.”

He gestures to the hallway, as if welcoming Bucky to a business meeting. Bucky slides off the exam table and walks where directed.

The designs turn out to be sketches for a new arm. Bucky is impressed. He hadn’t considered that T’Challa’s armor might have been his own work; Bucky’s never was.

T’Challa is looking at him expectantly. He has an excellent poker face, smoothly handsome and controlled. This is now the longest conversation Bucky has had alone with T’Challa since they—met, if that’s the word. Since they met. Bucky has not been very good at conversation in a long time, and he knows it. Most of the time it doesn’t matter. But now, Bucky finds himself wanting to say something, even if he fears this is a ploy of some kind.

He picks up one of the schematics. “An embedded rifle would be more trouble than it’s worth,” he says. “What you gain in accuracy and response time you lose in flexibility and stability. Plus the recoil’s a problem.” He doesn’t look up at T’Challa, but he hears him make a _hmm_ noise, as if surprised. “This one. What is it?”

Warmth radiates outward from T’Challa as he steps closer. Bucky shivers, realizing that he must still be cold from the case. He glances at his metal shoulder and sees that drops of cold water are still melting from it. He’s getting the carpet wet.

“The larger cavity here is big enough to hold an explosive device,” T’Challa says, pointing. “The smaller, perhaps electronic equipment. We could also embed that in the arm, of course.” He looks at Bucky, studying him. T’Challa is standing quite close now—not threateningly close, but well within strike range. Bucky braces himself. “But I thought perhaps you might like to leave it hollow.”

Bucky frowns.

“It’s heavy,” T’Challa explains. “So much that it changes your gait. When I watched you walk down the hallway now, I could see how you shifted to compensate for a weight which is no longer there.” Bucky’s chest feels tight. He feels embarrassed and doesn’t know why. T’Challa backs up a couple steps, taking his right hand out of his pocket.

Bucky looks down and see that he’s clenched his fist again, stretching the bandages taut.

“I thought you might like to have an arm that was—for everyday wear,” T’Challa says softly. His body is stiff and prepared to spring, Bucky isn’t mistaking that. But something else is happening that Bucky can’t read.

He feels tired.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’d like to sleep.”

“Of course,” T’Challa says, and if this surprises him, he doesn’t show it. “While they are repairing your stasis chamber, please make use of our guest quarters. One of my staff will show you the way.”

*

Bucky doesn’t sleep. He rarely could when he was out of stasis. Of course, most of the time that was because he was busy hunting and killing someone. But sometimes it was just because his body didn’t seem to need sleep. He thinks Steve probably doesn’t sleep much anymore either.

He rolls over in the bed, which is very large, and spends a long time thinking about why T’Challa is trying to build him a new arm. After many hours, and unable to come up with an answer, he allows himself to imagine what a new arm might be like.

Sometime in the afternoon, he naps.

*

When Bucky wakes up, he starts sketching.

He discovers that the staff have been leaving food outside the room without knocking; when he opens the door to go in search of something to eat, he finds two trays with covered dishes, one still hot. He takes them both back into his room. The food is good, even after he’s picked it apart to smell it and look for hidden, ingestible tech. As he’s eating, he thinks that he probably didn’t need to do that, but it’s habit now. He keeps sketching.

Later, when it’s dark, T’Challa knocks. Bucky recognizes the smell of his cologne now, if it is cologne; the scent is warm and rich. Maybe it’s just the way he smells.

Bucky goes to the door and opens it.

“How are you feeling?” T’Challa says.

“Fine,” Bucky says. “I drew something.”

There’s that expression again, the one Bucky can’t read. T’Challa is very formal and mannered, and Bucky feels like he shouldn’t take anything at face value. Men in suits have not, historically, been honest with him.

But he invites T’Challa in anyway.

They look over the schematic together. Bucky was never good at art or math, but he can be precise, now, when he has to. His drawing is unlovely and mechanically implausible but clear.

T’Challa nods slowly. “This will be lighter than the original. I did wonder if the simulated musculature was merely for show.”

Bucky shrugs.

“I’ll look it over,” T’Challa says. “I have ideas for maximizing the slippage under each scale. Let me come back to you tomorrow evening.”

Bucky nods.

The next evening, T’Challa comes back with another design.

*

A handful of weeks go by. Within a few days, Bucky begins exploring the compound. It’s a lot like a hotel; he figures he’s either in a very high-end hospital, or his stasis chamber was installed in some sort of office building. Either option is odd.

It turns out that most of the architecture in Wakanda is like that, or at least what Bucky can see: sleekly ambiguous, easy to fit to multiple purposes. He feels an odd kinship with the buildings, and finds himself wandering again and again toward a housing complex of some kind that’s only partially built, its upper floors encrusted with scaffolding and doorways open to the air.

Most evenings, he discusses the designs for his new arm with T’Challa. The king of Wakanda is punctual and generous with his time. In a few of their recent meetings, they’ve eaten food together. Bucky can’t remember the last time he ate food together with someone, sitting down and talking.

He still isn’t sure why this is happening, but he knows that he will be sad when it ends.

*

T’Challa leans back in his chair, dabbing his lips with a cloth napkin. “You’re not what I expected, Barnes.”

They’ve worked through two meals this time; talking through Bucky’s experience with the neural command rig in his original arm took hours, and T’Challa seemingly writes a page of notes for every sentence that comes out of Bucky’s mouth. Then they got distracted discussing weapons innovation, and somehow Bucky found himself talking about the sniper rifle he had in France, and then about the war. He has now talked more to the king of Wakanda than to any living person besides Steve. He considers that this is probably a low bar.

“What did you expect?” Bucky says.

T’Challa considers him. He’s changed his manner over the weeks; now he’s lounging in his chair, jacket and tie removed, collar unbuttoned. Even his mouth seems looser, quicker to purse in thought or smile in appreciation.

“I’ve met soldiers of many nations,” T’Challa says. “Most of them are disciplined, like you. Not as precise or powerful, but disciplined. But let them off their leash—” Bucky winces at the word, and T’Challa pauses. “My apologies. Let them off duty, let us say? —and they become just the same as any other boisterous youngsters.

“But you are not like that, I think.” Here he leans forward. His hands are together between his knees; it would be very easy for Bucky to injure him right now. Even as he imagines this, he feels that there is a different thought behind it, a different urge that’s been plastered over with violence. T’Challa seems not to notice any change in Bucky’s expression. “You remain serious, even when you are at liberty and unconfined.”

 _At liberty_. Bucky considers the words. Is that what he is? He can’t leave, because someone will try to kill him. He isn’t really free.

But _within_ Wakanda—it occurs to him that T’Challa has been under no obligation to give him even the freedom of this building, let alone the outdoors. He’d suspected it was a ploy, and waited patiently for the trap to spring. But if it wasn’t—if it isn’t—

Suddenly all those nights together in this room, talking and eating, start to take on a very different cast.

“You’re not what I expected either,” Bucky says. His eyes flick down to T’Challa’s mouth.

T’Challa smiles. After all his careful formality and his finely honed skill in battle, the effect is shocking. His smile is warm and inviting, showing off his teeth, and his eyes fairly twinkle. “No? How so?”

“Much handsomer than I expected,” Bucky says, unable to believe those words just left his lips. But T’Challa just smiles again, and leans forward further, and suddenly Bucky sees in radiant Technicolor the thought he’s been having all evening, with the veil of violence torn away: he sees himself stepping between T’Challa’s knees, lifting his face, his lips parting—

He makes himself move slowly when he does it, because it’s not a great idea to startle a warrior-king, but T’Challa simply lets his face be lifted into a kiss.

*

“Harder, _god—_ ” Bucky gasps, letting his head fall back over the side of the bed. “Yes, yes, like that, like that—” It’s all he can do to hang on to the bed post with his hand while T’Challa pounds into him, seemingly willing to take Bucky at his word. He’d been so gentle at first, almost unsure of where to put his hands; but once Bucky laid back on the bed and pulled him down, once the trajectory was clear, T’Challa showed no hesitation.

“You like this?” T’Challa says throatily. “Hard enough for you?” He punctuates this with a particularly deep thrust, and Bucky moans. He had nearly forgotten what pleasure felt like, and now that he’s feeling it again, he wants to lose himself in it.

“No,” Bucky pants. “Never. More, oh god, more—” T’Challa huffs in amusement and, incredibly, speeds up his pace. He’s slim enough to fit between Bucky’s legs, but he’s powerful. And _hot_ , god, Bucky’s memory can’t find any purchase for this sensation but the only word he can think of is _passionate_ , T’Challa is _blazingly_ passionate, covering him and warming him and lighting him up inside.

“ _Yes_ ,” T’Challa says intensely, over and over. “Yes, yes, as much as you want. Yes.”

*

They get less work done after that.

“We can add an automatic shutoff here—” T’Challa says one night, bumping Bucky’s hand on the schematic, and then Bucky has to touch him, feel him, unbutton that favorite lilac shirt of his and pull him to the floor.

“The response time is too long,” Bucky says the next day, feeling T’Challa’s arms around his waist, hands investigating the folds of his robe. “We have to fix that,” he insists as T’Challa begins kissing his neck. “It’ll hold up the whole—rig— _ahh_ —”

“You _cannot add propulsion at this stage_ ,” T’Challa says two nights later, exasperated. Bucky is on his knees, unbuckling T’Challa’s slacks. “There isn’t any room left if you want to maintain the weight. That’s to say nothing of a navigation system—” He gasps. “Doing that won’t make you right, you know.”

Bucky, mouth full, doesn’t answer.

*

Eventually, the arm design is finished.

“It’ll take some time to fabricate, of course,” T’Challa says. “And then there will be a prolonged testing phase.”

Bucky allows himself a smile. “A testing phase. And if it doesn’t work out?”

T’Challa shrugs. “Back to the drawing board, I suppose.” His eyes twinkle.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to the wonderful [sasha_feather](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_feather/pseuds/sasha_feather) for the beta!
> 
> Although the title sounds fairly literal, it's from the lyrics of "Left Hand Free" by Alt-J. I love that song and was thrilled, and then HIGHLY AMUSED, to hear it playing over the credits of Civil War. Here are some of the lyrics:
> 
> Well your left hand's free  
> And your right's in grip  
> With another left hand  
> Watch his right hand slip  
> Towards his gun  
> Oh no
> 
> I tackle, we tussle  
> And oh my days we're rolling  
> My right hand's gripped on his  
> Colt single action army  
> Oh no
> 
> MM-HMMMM. TUSSLE. THAT'S RIGHT. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


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